


10,000 Sunsets

by voleuse



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-19
Updated: 2006-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I want to bagatelle you. I want to youth you.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	10,000 Sunsets

**Author's Note:**

> Set between 4.18 and 4.22. Title, summary, and headings adapted from Jon Leon's _My Country (Sentimental Nude)_.

_i. I burn my face with have._

Amy doesn't remember the exact moment when she became a professional cynic, but she thinks it must have happened during a fundraising gala. Each one is the same, after all. There's a collection of gowns that probably cost more than her college tuition, and a menu of delicacies she can't pronounce and won't remember. The music is performed by celebrities who can afford to _not_ perform, and the notable guests earnestly debate how to end poverty as their chairs scrape against immaculate hardwood floors.

She hopes she isn't the only one to recognize the irony, but for the sake of her sanity, she doesn't examine the possibility up close.

While she's looking in the other direction, somebody clutches her hand and tells her congratulations. Amy manages not to startle, and smiles politely instead.

"Thank you so much," she tells the woman. She looks vaguely familiar, but Amy can't place her. "Call my secretary this week," she hazards, "and we can talk about that thing."

The woman beams, and Amy hopes she hasn't committed herself to anything ridiculous. She holds her smile until the woman is gone, and across the room, she sees Josh and Donna.

Josh has that supercilious expression, the unattractive one, and Donna is rolling her eyes.

Amy turns to her next well-wisher and grasps his hand in both of hers.

_ii. I take my face away._

On her first Friday night at the White House, Amy runs into Carol in the hallway.

"After the last press conference," Carol replies to Amy's apology, "there's going to be a thing."

"A thing?" Amy asks, but Carol only smiles.

*

 

There are drinks, and jazz playing a fraction too loud, and Amy thinks this might be on the mild edge of scandal. If only for the crab puffs scattered over what looks like a _very_ antique side table.

"Think of it as an unofficial welcome to the building," CJ says, grinning over the rim of her champagne glass.

"Or an apology," Toby counters, and he and CJ saunter away as Amy laughs uncomfortably.

The First Lady is arguing with the President, and they look as exasperated and in love as any couple could possibly be. Amy pours herself a finger of brandy, and in a corner, Donna is handing Josh a cell phone.

Amy looks away, sees Toby stepping outside for a smoke. The First Couple make their exit soon after, and that's when Margaret pulls a deck of cards out of her purse.

"Who's in?" Margaret asks, shuffling with both hands. Amy drags a cushioned chair over, turns it backwards and straddles it.

Carol wins the first hand, and CJ the second and third. On the fourth hand, Amy's out of handy cash, but she has four of a kind.

CJ leans forward and smirks. "What are your stakes?"

"How about," Amy says, thrumming her fingers against the table, "lunch with the First Lady, and two orchestra seats to _La Forza del Destino_."

"Interesting," Margaret chimes in, and they each toss their own stakes into the pot. Among the collection are a gym membership, third mention on a slow news day, and the location of Toby's stash of cigars.

When Donna lays out her straight flush, Amy chokes on her martini.

_iii. (you you you you you)_

After the party dies down, Donna walks her outside. It isn't cold yet, but there's a bite in the air. "Have you ever done something like this?" Donna asks.

"Worked in politics?" Amy raises her eyebrows, smirks. "It's what I do."

"No." Donna shakes her head, and Amy doesn't understand her smile. "I mean, worked _for_ someone."

"Oh." Amy pauses, and the toe of her shoe stutters against the pavement. "No."

The silence stretches over a minute, then Donna changes the subject.

_iv. 10,000 sunsets you._

They go out for drinks after work, sometimes. Past ten, past eleven, past midnight, past two. Amy's ankles hurt from walking the corridors, and Donna's a little punchy from conference calls.

There's a bar a few blocks away, a decent location, with decent prices for better-than-decent drinks. They take turns having a second drink, one driving the other home after she reaches tipsy. In the morning, there's a cab ride back to work, or a long, brisk walk down the mall.

Donna doesn't drink anything, Amy notices, when it's her night to drive. Not even soda--she nurses water with a twist of lemon and a leaf of mint.

On those mornings after, she brings Amy a latte and a chocolate croissant. If they both have the moment free, they split the croissant, and furtively lick their fingers clean.

_v. I speculate where._

When it's Donna's turn to drive again, Amy has a vodka tonic and two strawberry margaritas. It's been a long week, and the First Lady has become ensnared in the pirate controversy again.

After their drinks, Amy orders a slice of cake. It's a sliver of chocolate and cream, laced over with chocolate sauce. Amy eats a forkful, then extends the next to Donna.

Donna shakes her head, so Amy grabs her water, sets it far to the side. She raises the fork again, and Donna laughs. She leans forward, opens her mouth. Teeth bared, she takes the bite of cake, slides her lips over the fork. At the taste, Donna makes a throaty noise, lets her head fall back.

It's close to obscene. Amy licks her lips.

She feeds Donna the rest of the cake, and it's better than any drink she's tried so far.

*

 

Donna pulls to the curb, just outside Amy's apartment. Instead of saying good night and thanks, Amy reaches over and grabs Donna's wrist. "Come on," Amy says, and she only half knows what she means by it.

But Donna nods, and when she curves to unbuckle her seatbelt, Amy pounces, mashes their lips together.

The street's light filters dimly into the car, and the night is quiet underneath Donna's gasp. Amy presses forward, and Donna's hand touches her throat, trails down to the top button of her blouse, and in.

Donna's still buckled in, and her hips shift underneath the constraint. Amy doesn't free her, instead inches her hand up Donna's thighs, under her skirt. She grins at the heat she finds, hooks her fingers inside the silk and strokes, strokes, strokes.

When Donna comes, her elbow hits the horn, and Amy's so startled she jerks back and curses.

Outside, a dog starts howling.

Donna leans back, and when her smile dissolves to laughter, Amy finds herself doing the same.

_vi. You, I aria._

When the sun slants through Amy's curtains, waking her, Donna's arm is still draped over her waist.

Amy rolls, places a tentative hand on Donna's arm. "Hey," she says, and Donna's eyes are already open.

"Hey," Donna says. "I'm dying for a croissant."


End file.
